


cats and dogs have enormous patience with the limitations of the human kind

by janie_tangerine



Category: Bastille Day (2016)
Genre: (not really) - Freeform, Cats, Dogs, Dorks in Love, I Blame Tumblr, M/M, Pets, Post-Canon, The Author Regrets Everything, This is ridiculous, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 02:51:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8269879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: in which they have opposite tastes when it comes to the everlasting 'are you a cat or a dog person'. Good thing the aforementioned cat and dog are smarter about it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo this one was always for a tumblr prompt, an anon wanted _One of them is the cat person and which one - the dog person. How do they cope with it once they move in together?_. I complied. THIS IS FUCKING RIDICULOUS FROM BEGINNING TO END I WARNED YOU. Also: I suck at pet names so I basically decided those two were gonna be nerds about it.
> 
> As usual, nothing belongs to me and I found the title on some CUTE QUOTES ABOUT OUR ANIMAL FRIENDS website without source (it also was about cats only but I tweaked it) so like, it's not anything I came up with but I have no clue who said it. Sorry /o\

The day his first CIA paycheck shows up on his bank account, Michael doesn’t spend a cent of it.

Mostly, because even if he’s been _in trial_ for some six months and apparently they’re taking him on for a serious test run, he hadn’t quite thought the day would come when he’d get a _proper paycheck_ obtained… well. Legally. Deposited on his online account and everything. Somehow it feels _wrong_ to spend it. Or better, it feels like if he spends it then he’ll find out it vanished into thin air, never mind that the _bank account_ itself was CIA-issued, so it’s a pretty fucking dumb notion, and he’s aware of that.

Regardless, he doesn’t touch it. At the second one, he uses it to pay his rent.

When the third adds up, he considers the situation for a bit, inquires with his neighbor, gets out of the house and heads for the nearest dog shelter.

After all, even if he’s _on trial_ , it’s still the CIA. They pay him enough that he thinks he can afford it.

He looks around the shelter. Then he sees a small, black and grey German shepherd huddling in one of the cages – it’s young, can’t be older than four or five months, has one mutilated foreleg and sends him such a _sad_ look that Michael has to stop.

“Oh, that one,” the volunteer rattles in French, “such a sad story. The mother rejected her and the previous owner evidently couldn’t bother to bring her to a shelter, and looks like they lived near some highway. She ran on some kind of trap and some kids found her on the side of the road and brought her here.”

“I’m taking her,” Michael says without even blinking. They had him at  _the mother rejected her_.

A quarter of the paycheck in question is enough to pay for the adoption fee and get some food and the necessary stuff from the nearby shop.

See, thing is – he could never afford pets any way or the other, first because his parents weren’t fond of the idea, and then because his lifestyle wasn’t exactly compatible with dogs. And fine, he guesses working for the CIA might not be that compatible either, but at least there’s no risk that he might have to run at any moment and leave everything behind. Other than that – well, he always liked dogs on principle, but there’s something comforting in the idea of _someone_ actually sticking with you and being loyal, you know, and given that  _people_ in his life don’t really stick around –

He always wanted a dog. Figures it was time he got one, right?

And fine, maybe his chest goes a bit tight when he pets his new dog – he needs to find her a name stat – and she whines before cuddling further into his chest.

Fine, he doesn’t dwell on what it says about him that he calls the dog Grey Wind – listen, _Game of Thrones_ was cool when he could watch it, okay? – and somehow when he realizes that he’s just given himself a very good reason to _not_ cut and run should he feel the urge, it doesn’t faze him that much.

–-

Then it happens that one day he and Briar are done debriefing and they’re in the elevator, and Briar is sending him a _look_ that is honestly making Michael wonder if the man is ever going to stop pretending to be an emotionless drone and – well, he has a feeling that Briar wants _at least_ to fuck, and damn but Michael wouldn’t be adverse to the idea, but the guy’s not doing a single thing about it and it’s starting to make Michael wonder if _he_ should make a move.

Except that given the current situation he’s not in the position where he wants to fuck up things between them, given that Briar’s sort of his boss and that he’s not resorting to shooting at him if needed in missions, lately.

Michael is about to crack a joke to diffuse the tension, and then –

“My place, tomorrow, eight PM.” Briar says the moment the elevator’s doors open.

“What?” Michael instinctively replies.

“You heard me right the first time.” And then the bastard starts leaving the building.

“Hey! You never told me the address!” Michael shouts after Briar, who hasn’t even told him his _name_ technically – fucking _Tom_ did. When he realized that Michael didn’t even know his handler’s _first name_ he had looked up at the sky, murmured something under his breath and told Briar that he was hopeless.

“As if you don’t know that,” Briar says, and then disappears around the corner.

Right. Michael does know. He _did_ lift the guy’s wallet a few times just to keep in shape.

He smirks to himself and decides that tomorrow he’ll be on top of his game, damn it.

-–

So, admittedly, he picks the tightest pair of jeans he owns. He also puts on the nicest shirt he owns, as well – it’s pristine white, shows off just enough chest if you keep the first couple buttons open and he’s been told it makes his hair stand out by a few French guys who had no reasons to lie about it. He kind of hopes that Briar doesn’t  _just_ want to fuck, but even if he did he’d be game – there’s a reason why he was _that_ worked up when he found out the bastard lied to him that first time, all right?

So he shows up on time – Briar opens the door and sends him a look that Michael hopes was appreciative.

“Well, at least you can be on time,” he says. He _hasn’t_ dressed up, he has the regular suit trousers he always wears on the job and a pale cream shirt he definitely didn’t iron, but it’s not as if Michael cares, especially if he gets to take off those clothes later.

Michael smells Chinese the moment he walks inside the apartment – which by the way, is _nice_. Why is the guy always in the office when he has an apartment of at least three rooms in _Monmartre_?

“Either you know how to cook Chinese or you ordered in,” Michael jokes, taking off his coat.

Briar _definitely_ eyes him up.

“I ordered,” he quips. “Do I look like the kind of person who can _cook_ Chinese?”

“I don’t know,” Michael says slowly, “you don’t, but you have many talents, from what I see.”

Briar sort of smirks at that, and then –

_Something_ meows from Michael’s left side.

He turns and –

There’s a cat perched on the nearest chair. A healthy, average-sized cat with pitch black fur and piercing green eyes and an admittedly magnificent tail swaying lazily in the air.

It looks like the kind of cat whose picture you could post on Facebook and would gain you some two hundred likes alone without people sharing it, and it would all be good and proper if Michael didn’t – well, he doesn’t _hate_ cats or anything, but they’re just not his cup of tea. They tend to do their thing, they are generally assholes and scratch at you, they’re detached and they won’t launch themselves at you when you come back home, and they’re just not  _reliable_ , okay?

“Uh, didn’t know you had a cat,” Michael says, keeping the tone neutral.

“Eh,” Briar says, moving behind it and petting it on the back. It purrs. “Since it looks like I’m stationed here for a long time and this is the only CIA office which can _make use of my assets_ … I had one years ago but it’s not exactly the right job for taking care of cats full-time. She’s living with my sister.”

Oh _shit_. The guy has said more about his _previous_ cat in one go than he ever did about _himself_ in the entire time they knew each other.

Sean Briar is _one of those people_ who could probably talk about their fucking cat for a month.

“So – got yourself one recently?” At least he can make conversation, right?

“Couple months ago.”

“Does it have a name?”

“He has, but you get to learn it after you pass the trial period.”

Which is just – like Briar to say, isn’t it.

“So, cat person?” Michael goes on.

“Well, _yes_. They can look after themselves for one, I don’t have to schedule my day based on their needs and the likes. Does that surprise you?”

Actually – actually, _no_. Makes sense that someone like fucking _Briar_ would like cats best, after all. The guy, after all, is an egomaniac asshole with _issues in forming attachments_ who’ll shoot at people who are supposed to be on his side, prides himself on not needing anyone to do his job and the likes even if he hasn’t complained about partnering up with him for months, and who’ll want pets who can live without his presence.

Doesn’t mind that Michael doesn’t hope that this is a social call anyway.

Fuck, he’s really screwed if this tidbit of information is _not_ making him want to reconsider his stupid feelings.

“No,” he says, “actually, that sounds right. Now, do we try that Chinese or not? I’m hungry.”

–-

Turns out, it was _not_ a social call.

By the time he has to leave, Michael has decided that if Briar wants a no strings attached thing he won’t blink before agreeing, because the guy might be guarded in real life but _fuck_ if he’s a great lay, and if he has to stand the damned cat (who has looked smugly at him for the entire time they were in the same space, the bastard) he’ll take it.

When he walks back home, Grey Wind _does_ pretty much crash against his legs the moment he locks the door.

Really, how do you even prefer cats to dogs anyway?

–-

Michael thinks it’s a no strings attached thing for a few months, and patience if he has to try and keep hidden that he’d like for it to _not_ be – he can handle that. Really. As long as he doesn’t start assuming  _things_ which will eventually turn into the inevitable disappointment, he can handle it. Then one day Tom calls the both of them in, sends them a long suffering look and informs Michael that HQ is very pleased with _their_ joint performance and his trial run’s over, if he wants to stay permanently, and he won’t be the one discouraging it even if his liver is telling him otherwise.

Of course, he takes it, and for a moment he meets Briar’s eyes as the conversation goes down, and –

It lasted a moment, but the guy looked genuinely happy, and could it be that –

_That_ –

He doesn’t really want to hope in things that might turn out to be nothing, but then he asks Briar if he wants to come over to _his_ place tomorrow, which Briar always refused on account of Michael never having moved out from his _horrible attic_ , as he calls it.

Briar looks at him, shrugs and says yes.

_Well then_.

-–

So maybe Michael actually cooks dinner – it’s nothing fancy because he’s nowhere near _good_ at complicated things, but he can cook a couple of burgers and put some potatoes in the oven, never mind that he’s back in decent enough relations with his mom that she actually gave him the fucking recipe.

He also dresses nicely again. Grey Wind picks up on his excitement and is therefore also excited, and it’s all good until Briar walks in – wait, did he bring _wine_?

Michael can’t dwell on that because that’s when Briar notices Grey Wind and he takes a deep, long sigh.

“You didn’t have a dog last time I was here.”

“Who, Grey Wind? I got her sometime after they started paying me.”

“Well, _of course_ , makes sense.”

“It does?”

Briar sends him a _look_. “Mason, I did read your file and we’ve worked together _months_. Stands to reason you’d go for the kind of pet that more or less depends on you.”

“Same as it makes sense that you’d like the kind who couldn’t give less of a fuck about their owners?”

Briar _does_ laugh a bit at that. “Maybe,” he admits, “and let me guess, you think cats are smug assholes who can’t be trusted for shit?”

“How –”

“My mother hated cats.”

“Yeah, and you think dogs are too needy and you can’t look after them all the time never mind that they might be exhausting?”

“ _How_ –”

“That’s what my father always said when I asked him if we could get one,” Michael shrugs.

“Hm. Okay, well, then the only question is, are you the idiotic kind of person who can’t get past that when it comes to being a responsible adult and _interacting_ with people who disagree or not?”

And – shit. The way Briar’s looking at him, Michael has a clue that it’s not a question about _dogs_ as much as a question about _something else_ , and –

“I am if you are,” he replies, licking his lips for a split second. “I mean, whatever, cats are assholes and I don’t particularly like them, but I kinda like _you_ and you’re probably more of an asshole than your unnamed cat could ever be, I think I’m game.”

Briar takes a few steps closer and then he’s right next to him and his voice goes down a notch when he replies. “Guess what,” he says, “dogs are needy and need constant looking after and I don’t particularly care for it, but fuck knows why I actually don’t want to punch you in the face constantly and your dog over there would be way less work, so I might be _game_ as well. And by the way, my cat’s name’s Omar, he’s not _unnamed_.”

“What the – is that even a _cat_ ’s name?”

“You kids ever watched _The Wire_? Don’t even try to make fun of me for it, _you_ named your dog after a damned tv show as well.”

Michael cannot find a comeback to that, since Briar’s technically right.

But wait.

Didn’t he say that he’d tell him the cat’s name if he passed the _trial_ run?

Somehow, he doesn’t think he’s imagining it when, the moment Briar shakes his head and crashes his mouth against Michael’s a moment later, he thinks that it was a way _nicer_ kiss than any they ever shared up until this point.

He definitely can live with it.

–

It takes Briar another six months to _maybe_ suggest that Michael  _leaves that damned dump and just comes over_ , he has enough space for the both of them.

Right.

“Yeah, and should I come alone or –” Michael asks, and Briar sighs as he grabs his coffee from the machine in HQ’s hallway near his office.

“I’m probably going to regret it but if _you_ mind her I guess your dog can come too. _If_ she’s compatible with Omar.”

_Of course_.

They agree on the next evening.

Michael brings Grey Wind with, good thing that she’s so well-behaved people pay him compliments whenever he brings her to the park, and he places her on the ground carefully after walking up the stairs to Briar’s second-floor apartment.

“Right,” Briar says as she walks in, “let’s just see how it goes.”

Michael isn’t too optimist – Grey Wind is the sweetest dog in existence, and after almost a year of proper food and proper care she doesn’t look malnourished anymore, and she’s really not the kind of dog getting into fights with other dogs at least, but in his experiences when it comes to fucking cats they don’t like people or _any other thing_ stepping in on their territory. Hell, he doesn’t know how _Omar_ hasn’t deliberately scratched him yet – for now he’s just blatantly ignored his presence.

Anyway, Omar was lazing on the sofa but he does jump down from it the moment he notices that Grey Wind’s coming in his direction. He trots up to her, and for a moment they stare each other down, and Michael’s prepared for the worst –

And then the fucking cat leans over and _licks Grey Wind’s nose_. A tiny one, but he doesn’t look, you know, hostile or anything. Actually, he purrs low in his throat and doesn’t scratch or bite when Grey Wind moves closer and does the same to him.

Three minutes later, both Briar and Michael are staring down kind of dumbfounded at those other two who are – lying down on the ground and kind of cuddling into each other.

“Uhm,” Michael mutters a moment later, “I guess they’re cool with it. And possibly they’re smarter about this than the both of us.”

“I guess for once you’re actually right,” Briar says, and Michael doesn’t shrug it away when his hand moves to the small of his back.

Right, well, he figures that if this is how it’s going to go, this _one_ cat is okay with him.

Same as the owner, but he has a feeling that Briar’s thinking the exact same thing.

 

End.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone was wondering: Omar is also the author's favorite character from _The Wire_ , the author REALLY misses Grey Wind in GOT (and the owner) and the author is actually a cat person, but no one cares about that I guess. xD


End file.
